


All I Want for Christmas

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Family Feels, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic, M/M, i hate myself a bit for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: Christmas music floats joyously through the air, filling the space of the living room with gleeful choruses about sleigh rides through snow covered hills and silver bells, as five stockings of different patterns , with names stitched in gold hang along the top of a cold fireplace, the mantle decorated with frames holding pictures of family, friends, and smiling children. Around the tree, basking in the abnormally warm Chicago sun filtering in through the windows of double French doors are two six year olds looking up at the noble fir tree, each holding a different color ornament in their hand.“I think you should start on that side,” says the sandy blond haired child softly, motioning to the left side of the tree with a purple ornament in his hand. “And I’ll do this side. That’s how Papa and Daddy would do it.”—-





	All I Want for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Looks who emerged from the cave to give you some holiday angst!

 

Christmas music floats joyously through the air, filling the space of the living room with gleeful choruses about sleigh rides through snow covered hills and silver bells, as five stockings of different patterns , with names stitched in gold hang along the top of a cold fireplace, the mantle decorated with frames holding pictures of family, friends, and smiling children. Around the tree, basking in the abnormally warm Chicago sun filtering in through the windows of double French doors are two six year olds looking up at the noble fir tree, each holding a different color ornament in their hand.

 

“I think you should start on that side,” says the sandy blond haired child softly, motioning to the left side of the tree with a purple ornament in his hand. “And I’ll do this side. That’s how Papa and Daddy would do it.”

 

The other boy next to him, light brown hair and hazel grey eyes nods. “Okay,” he moves over to where his brother had motioned and hangs his own ornament, red with glittering gold snowflakes, on one of the sturdy branches. “Don’t put colors together, Declan!” the boy says with a smile as he goes back to the box and fetches another ornament, this time a light metallic blue.

 

“I won’t Saint!” the sandy blond child replies, eyes furrowed in concentration as he tries to find the perfect place for his purple bauble.“Daddy can help fix it if we do.” He receives a nod from the other boy as they begin to talk animatedly about Santa coming to school next week.

 

Pete can’t help but smile from the door way, his grin, not exactly reaching his eyes as he clutches his phone in his fist, his eyes not leaving his two youngest sons as they decorated the lower parts of the tree with the plastic ornaments Patrick has been instant on buying when the boys were one and in their ‘grabby stage’ as toddlers and mischievous, little hands ready to grab and play with anything that caught their little eyes, which included breakable Christmas ornaments.At least with the plastic ones, there wouldn’t be any danger or need to clean up, as well as made them perfectly safe from clumsy little hands as they got older and wanted to help with decorate.

 

Pete moves from the door way, as he looks down at the phone in his hand, fingers shakily moving over the screen to open his voicemail, finding the one with Patrick’s name. His fingers deftly press play and he brings it up to his ear.

 

“ _Hey_ ,” comes Patrick’s voice over the phone, warm and smooth, making Pete practically melt just at the sound. “ _Just wanted to let you know that I got Bronx from the airport,_ ” his husband says over the line, hearing the smile laced in his voice, _“We’re on our way back home,”_ Pete can faintly hear the sounds of a car door being closed, and then engine of Patrick’s sedan come to life, along with a faint _‘Buckle up, buddy’_ clearly addressed to the 8 year old in the car. _“Traffic looks pretty bad, so it might take us a while. Oh! And one more thing, someone wants to talk to you,”_ there’s a movement, a rustle as the phone gets passed and another voice graces his ears, _“Hey Dad!”_ Bronx’s voice is bright and filled with excitement. He could practically see his son beaming as he speaks into the phone, _“Don’t hang my Death Star ornament or Papa’s drum set ornament until we get there!”_ Patrick’s chuckle, low and sweet can be heard as the phone gets passed back to his husband, his voice once again coming over the receiver. “ _We’ll see you in a bit.Love you, Pete.”_ Bronx’s voice chimes through in the background. _“Love you Dad!”_ And the voicemail ends.

 

Whiskey eyes squint at the blinding brightness of the screen, as heaviness sits in his chest even as the screen dims before fading completely to black. He had never slept through his phone ringing before, he ponders, letting his mind get lost in the swirling thoughts of dark and dread, how come he didn’t hear it…

 

“Daddy!” He snaps out of his thoughts, finding himself standing far too close to the edge of the swirling black, ink waters lurking in the recess his mind. His feet move with the automaticity that fatherhood has built within him ever since he and Ashlee brought Bronx home all those years ago, a babbling bundle of blonde hair and blue eyes, andgrown even more when Declan and Saint were born, twins, two of a kind, but looking nothing alike, born via surrogate.Patrick took like a duck to water, rocking each one on those first sleepless nights, singing a lullaby under his breath to whoever woke first, while for Pete, it was like age old clockwork. And Bronx, ever the willing big brother, always ready to help with the twins at a moment’s notice. “Daddy come look!” Saint calls again, Declan’s melodic giggling joining Saint’s.

 

When he reappears in the doorway, Pete’s greeted by two sets of eyes and matching smiles, two shining stars in his ever swirling galaxy. “That little giggle usually means you two are up to something,” he teases, as his sons rush over to him, each taking one of his hands and bringing him over to the tree.

 

“Look! We started decorating the tree!”

 

“I don’t know if we did it right, but we tried not to match like you and Papa said!”

 

Pete looks at the bottom of the tree, kneeling down to the boys’ height as he takes in their work. True to their word, not a single ornament is next to a match color, silver, greens, blue, red, and golds, with splashes of purple litter the tree at the height of the boys in clusters. None of the ornaments are spaced out, but the lights that Pete had stringed around the tree earlier cast colorful shadows along the floor.

 

“Does it look okay?” Saint asks shylyleaning into his father’s side, as Declan mirrors the action with his own question. “Do you like it?”

 

“It looks awesome, little dudes!” Pete smiles, hugging them both tight, eyes lingering on Declan, for a fraction of a moment when the boy’s eyes shine, reminding him so much of his husband. “We might need to spread some of the ornaments to the top,” he explains gently.

 

“We tried! But couldn’t reach,” pouts Declan, his brother nodding alongside him.

 

Pete chuckles. “You guys should have called me sooner, I could have helped,” he adds warmly. The afternoon continues on with the three of them around the tree, artistically rearranging ornaments with two six year old’s careful eyes, and gently hanging the more fragile ones on top, safe from harms way, the tree is mostly done.

 

Pleased with their work, Bronx and Saint run back to the box that housed their ornaments and, with four gentle hands, took out a shoe box out, Pete sliding his phone back into his pocket after having discreetly checked the time for the umpteenth time. “Can we put our ornaments next?” the box asked in sync.

 

The Pete sat with his sons on the floor, sliding off the lid of the box with careful hands, two sets of eyes wide with curiosity. Inside are what appear to be wads of crumpled newspaper stuffed haphazardly within the box. Taking one of the wads, Pete delicately unfurls the wrappings, undoing layers and layer of old newspaper until a single ornament is revealed- a figurine of Jack Skellington dressed as Sandy Claws, in a chimney and presenting a wrapped gift. He smiles as he holds it up by the black and white stripped ribbon for his boys to see. “Yours!” they cry out, as Pete gingerly places the ornament back in the box as he continues with the rest. A miniature red drum set is unveiled next, which belongs to Patrick, then a pair of Mickey Mouse ears attached to a brilliant red ribbon. “Mine!” “Declans!” Pete stands and hoists Declan up in his arms, handing him his Mickey ears and letting him hang it on one of the highest branches. Saint’s gets unwrapped next, a baseball with the Chicago Cubs proudly painted on it, a blue and red ribbon decorating it. Pete does the same, and Saint chooses to place it next to his twin’s.

 

Pete sets his oldest twin down and watches as the boys look up at the tree, identical megawatt smiles, lighting up the room, brighter than any lights on any tree could ever do. There’s something that blooms in his chest, a flower born in the dead of winter, evergreen breaking through the frozen tundra, painted with hope, as he watches his boys, their features covered in wonder.

 

All that’s missing is Bronx and Patrick…

 

“Can we open Bronx’s ornament?” comes Declan’s voice, soft and low, as two little hands find their way into his, breaking him out of his trance.

 

“Umm, y-yeah,” Pete stumbles, trying to collect his thoughts and he sits down and with reverent hands, unravels the paper to reveal Bronx’s Death Star ornament, painted with painstaking detail and attached with a red ribbon. There’s an unspoken question in the twin’s eyes, but neither of them ask, instead, Pete can read them, much like Patrick could read his own. “We’ll…we’ll hang it later, okay?”

 

Both boys nod, and go back to playing around the tree, negotiating between themselves on where to place the train set their Grandma Dale had given them last year, while Pete watches from the distance, checking his phone.

 

Eight p.m. rolls along, and the boys are tucked into bed, each with a kiss goodnight, and the nightlight casting a warm glow along the room. “You’ll send our letters to Santa tomorrow, right?” askedSaint as he snuggles into his pillow.

 

“Of course, I’ll send them off as soon as I drop you two off at school, okay?”With another goodnight, Pete closes the door, and walks down the stairs to ready their backpacks for school in the morning, leaving them by the front door, along with their jackets.

 

He checks his phone again, and sighs.

 

When all was set and done, Pete makes his way back to the living room, the glow of the Christmas tree greeting him as he enters, smiling at he and the twin’s handy work, before making their way over to the mantle and now burning fireplace.

 

In two of the stockings, he sees a sliver of white peaking from the top, a folded up piece of paper that Saint and Declan had asked him to put in their respective stocking, with a _‘Daddy, don’t look! That’s for Santa only!’_ Each had sat down and written their own letter, something that Pete didn’t have to prompt for like he usually did each year. 

 

With the boys soundly asleep, he plucks each paper from their stocking and sits on the sofa, unfolding each and reading them.

 

 _“Dear Santa….,_ ” the letter starts off in Saint’s messy crayon scroll, causing Pete to smile, the letters misshapen but still easy to read, “ _I don’t want toys this year…All I want for Christmas is for my papa and my big brother, Bronx, to be with us. They are angel now angels, but I miss them a lot. ”_

 

Pete feels himself go cold, feels his chest constrict and the world cave from under his feet, as his vision blurs with burning tears as what his six-year old wrote. With a shattering heart, he fumbles with Declan’s unfolding it to reveal blue crayon writing, smaller than Saints, and straighter.

 

 _“Santa…All I want is to give my big brother and daddy Patrick a hug and see them,”_ Pete reads, tears falling from his eyes at their own accord, running rivets down his cheeks and onto the paper trembling his is grip, _“And for my Daddy Pete to be happy again.”_

 

There’s a sob that escapes his lips before he even realizes it, it’s gut-wrenching and deep, and he tries to keep it in, tries to muffle it so that he doesn’t wake up the twins, he doesn’t want them to see him like this again, not when they’ve seen him struggle so much to keep it together over these last two years, to himself sane for them, to be their father, their parent, their everything, when Patrick wasn’t there to help him, to stabilize him, to be his saving grace and his patience among the chaos.

 

Two years since…since the voicemail, still playing on his phone.

 

Two years that he’s been waiting for Bronx and Patrick to come waltzing through the front door, bags thrown in the living room. Two years that he’s been waiting to hug his eldest son and kiss his husband, to finish decorating the tree, to let them hang their ornaments, like Patrick always wanted to do, their silly Christmas tradition.

 

But he’ll never get that.

 

Because two years ago, Patrick had gone to O’Hare to pick up Bronx when Pete should have gone, but Patrick was close by, had even insisted on picking up Bronx.

 

Because two years ago, it had been snowing horribly, blinding white and grey with slippery roads and careless, reckless drivers.

 

Because two years ago, Patrick, being the safest driver Pete had ever known, could not prevent the car beside them hitting a patch of black ice and losing control, slamming into Patrick’s car, causing it to veer into another lane and get t-boned by another vehicle.

 

Because two years ago, he lost his eldest son, and the love of his life, his husband, his Patrick, leaving him widowed with two four-year old twin boys just days before Christmas.

 

And now....

 

Now he’s left to pick up the broken pieces of everything he has ever known, and doing it all on his own.

 

Burying his _husband_ , burying his _child…_

 

Their future, as a family, as a band, down the drain in a cold blink of an eye… He almost lost himself, himself to the grief, to the guilt, the endless wanderings of _“What if I had just gone?....What if I had picked up the phone…Why them…”_ consumed him, and nearly destroyed him.

 

But it didn’t…he couldn’t..he couldn’t let it.

 

He had Declan and Saint to care for on his own, who were now fatherless and brotherless, who were too young to fully understand the true concept of death, who cried every night when Pete, through his own tears and worn soul, would have to tell them that Papa and Bronx were never going to come home, who would cry and scream out in anger and despair during the first few months about wanting their Papa or wanting Bronx, leaving Pete reduced to helpless tears as he would hold his sons against his chest, explaining to them, as best as he could to four year olds, that _‘Bronx and Papa are angels…they…they’re not here anymore, I’m sorry, I want them back too, I’m so sorry.’_

 

He had to be strong, even though it was so fucking hard to be.

 

He’s not going to lie, he broke more than a few times, in particularly when it came to Declan, the youngest of all their sons, their quiet child, Patrick’s spitting image. Declan was the one who seemed to take it the worst. Pete remembers when Declan, their docile and shy child,began lashing out at preschool, would cry, scream, fight, seemingly out of nowhere. All the grief counselors and therapists that he talked to told him it was part of the process, that he would come to terms with the loss of his father and brother on his own with time and a lot of comfort and patience. But it only seems to get worse, that is until it came to the breaking point.

 

About a month after the funeral, Pete worn tired and barely hanging on, would pick him up from school and tried to calm and console the crying, ragging child, after being sent home for kicking and fighting with a teacher after reading a book about families. Pete tried his hardest, he really did, he fought back the tears, tried to speak calmly and firmly like Patrick always did, that is until the four-year old screamed at the top of his lungs while kicking and screaming and fighting with all his might against Pete with pale cheeks ruddy with anger and slicked with tears and little balled up fists. _“I DON’T WANT YOU I WANT PAPA.I WANT PAPA BACK!”_ That broken him. Just those words shattered him into a million little pieces, the floor he had been trying to keep together falling apart. It made him crumble onto the floor, cold and defeated, and sob because he couldn’t give Declan his father back, couldn’t make it right. Declan must have seen him crack, must have seen the bone deep misery and self-hatred embedded within from the cracked windows of his soul. Pete nearly gave up, wanted so badly to in that moment, tempted to listen to this whispering voices in his head that sang sweet nothings about a handful of pills and a waiting bottle of Jack, until Declan buried himself into his chest what felt like an eternity later, whispering choked apologized that a four-year-old should not be making, should not felt that he was at fault for. _“I’m sorry Daddy, I’m sorry I’m making you sad, please don’t leave, I love you so much, Daddy, please don’t leave me….please don’t hate me…”_

 

They sat on the floor in each other’s embrace, Pete whispering tearful reassurances into sandy blonde hair _“I couldn’t never hate you…Never, I love you so much, Dec, fuck you have no idea…”_

 

He pockets the letters into his hoodie and he lets his face fall into his hands, giving in and letting himself weep as the Christmas tree shines brightly, mocking him with memories of Christmas past, of their first Christmas together in Chicago, with Bronx, and then with the twins, and now Pete is left to make memories without them…

 

“Daddy?”

 

There’s a tiny whisper from the door way, followed with two sets of socked feet along the floor. With a sniffle and a quick wipe of the eyes, he finds Saint and Declan looking at him with wide and worried eyes.

 

Pete opens his mouth, tries to form words, asking them why they were out of bed, why they were up, but nothing comes out, no matter how hard he tries.

 

But just like he could read them, the boys have a uncanny ability to read him in return, a skill that must make Patrick proud. Declan and Saint walk over to Pete on the sofa, and climb on either side of him and wrap their arms around his neck, hiding their faces into his shoulder, Pete wrapping an arm around each one of them as he buries his own face in their hair, tears flowing freely once more.

 

“We’re sorry we made you sad, Daddy,” he hears Declan muffle into his shoulder, a damp spot already growing there, as his little voice hiccups into a sob. “We didn’t mean to, we just thought Santa could help…”

 

“Please don’t cry Daddy, don’t be mad at us,” Saint whispers into his shirt, but it’s loud enough for Pete to hear and loud enough to shatter Pete’s heart. “We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to make you sad with our letters, that’s why we didn’t want you to read it.”

 

They knew…oh God they knew what it would do to him…

 

“We just want you happy again, Daddy.”

 

He plants kisses on both their heads, letting his tears fall onto their hair as his sons sob into his chest, faint whisperings of ‘ _We’re sorry’_ and _‘I miss Papa and Bronx’_ , fill the room, but Pete shakes his head.

 

“Don’t be sorry, never be sorry. I miss them so much, it’s just so hard,” he tries to explain to the six year old boys holding on to him for dear life, Pete grasping on to them in return. “But we’re going to be okay,” he reassures them, with a low a soothing voice, rough his tears, but soft as velvet, blanketing them in all the comfort and love that Pete could muster.“As long as we have each other, I’m happy, I’ll always be happy, even if I’m sad, because I have you two, and that’s what Papa and Bronx would have wanted, okay? I love you both so much…” He feels their little heads nod against his chest, as the sobbing subsides but the tears still fall. “So, so much.”

 

The sounds of tearful sniffles and whispered comforts float through the air, filling the space of the living room with a quiet and steady calm, as five stockings of different patterns with names stitched in gold hang along the top of a burning fireplace, the mantle decorated with frames holding photos of loved ones pasted and memories shared. In the distance from the tree glowing in the cold Chicago night, moonlight filtering in through the windows of double French door, are two six year olds looking up at the noble fir tree, each holding onto their father as they drift into a dreamless sleep, blanketed in the love of those they’ve lost, and of the father they still have.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alast! My contribution to this year’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Peterick Christmas”! I’ve had this little ball of angst written since last year but could never bring myself to post it. However, I feel like the time is right. When I wrote this fic, I was in a very dark place, however this year, life has definitely dealt me quite a few cards I wasnt prepared for, and I can happily say that Im getting to a much safer and healthier place. 
> 
> Here’s to a new year! Merry Christmas and happy holidays!!! Love you all!


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